


Seven Years and a Black Cat

by SLq



Series: Gunpowder and Tea [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Humor, M/M, Porn with Feelings, doting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6902395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I apologized for the gun," Bond pants in his ear and Q would punch him, he really would, but his hands seem to be stuck. He flexes his fingers, momentarily confused. The handfuls of tight, gorgeous ass remind him what he'd been up to pretty fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Years and a Black Cat

The thing is, the stupid fucking thing is, they had _warned_ them.

 _Don't sleep with 007_. It had been in a memo. Fuck, it had _been_ the goddamn memo, heading and text and shitload of _references_ included. And pictures. Oh God, the pictures. It was like flipping through a public high school year book. How did a man sleep with that many people without catching something supremely nasty?

Threats of burning genitalia had not been the memo's point, though. Or the staff meeting's, after one of the techies broke the golden rule and was subsequently found with a bullet through the left eye in an elevator at a fucking _mall_. It's common knowledge that romantic entanglements with the double-0s tend to end badly. Apparently when the number after the zeroes is a seven, they tend to end with brain tissue smeared against a wall.  

That had in fact been the point of the meeting. The suit presenting had tried to pretty it up and warned them all against 'becoming compromised' rather often without actually giving a concrete reason. By then news of Karen's untimely demise had made the rounds. Q - at the time in possession of an actual name and not yet reduced to a Sesame-Street letter designation - had looked around a room filled with bespectacled faces and nodded to himself. James fucking Bond was not getting any ass in Q-branch, that was for damn sure.

Fast forward a year, an explosion, and a runaway psychopath. Most everyone who matters is dead. Q does not think of himself highly enough to consider his survival an exception. Same goes for Bond, although the department generally disagrees with Q's low opinion of their longest-lasting and likely least-stable agent. It's like no one even _reads_ the goddamn damage reports. There's a Bond-shaped black hole in M16's budget and nobody seems to give a fuck.

To be fair, _Q_ wouldn't give a fuck either except that 007 sheds equipment like he does his clothes and Q is not made of gadgets, _fuck you very much, Bond!_

"I apologized for the gun," Bond pants in his ear and Q would punch him, he really would, but his hands seem to be stuck. He flexes his fingers, momentarily confused. The handfuls of tight, gorgeous ass reminds him what he'd been up to pretty fast.

Bond had just come back from a mission in Guatemala - two, three hours ago now. He had been sporting a day's worth of stubble, had smelt of sweat and gunpowder and blood. Q had taken one look at him, dismissed his assistant - in the singular, they are still so horrifically understaffed - and pulled his wayward charge into his cubicle of an office.

"You did _not_ , you waltzed in and demanded a new one, you t-" Q pauses his very much deserved rant in order to moan and arch his neck, so Bond had more skin to nip and suck and generally bruise, "-you _twat_."

Bond laughs against Q's throat, which makes Q feel like he's laughing too. Warmth bubbles up in Q's brain like the best of Champaign, and just like that Q is lost again. He feels hazy, drunk, despite indulging in nothing but tea all day.

"Mmmh, but you'll give me one, won't you?" Bond mouths against Q's cheek, bends his head and takes Q's earlobe between his lips. Q purrs at the burn against his cheek and it is Bond who moans this time. Q smirks, pleased beyond reason at getting a rise out of the man, and rides the hard thigh Bond has thrust between his. Bond encourages him with a sweet little murmur and another helpless drag of his hard cock over Q's slacks. Q squeezes his ass and growls back. Fucking tease.

"I always follow through," Bond rasps back and Q bites his own lips shut. He never gets this far gone, never had before Bond. The smug, satisfied smile Bond levels at him has Q flushing with indignation. He'd said that out loud too, hadn't he.

"You did."

Fuck.

"Not yet." Bond slides his huge, strong, fucking _nice_ hands down to cup Q's ass and haul him up on Q's desk. This forces Q's hands to leave the lovely home they had made in Bond's pants. It also results in a crash that sounds suspiciously like Q's favorite mug breaking.

"You owe me so many things," Q groans against Bond's lips.

"I will give you anything you want," Bond says back, strangely fervent, and pushes his tongue in Q's mouth. Not overly suave for someone who'd been doing this since before Q was around. Bond rarely is, when they're alone. Q finds the man's apparent loss of control when he's got his hands on Q thrilling. Surprising - Q's not a catch by a long shot - but nice. Just like the gentling of Bond's mouth is nice, the hands sliding up his back to cup his cheeks and thread into his hair are nice. "I'll be so nice for you, baby," Bond says and fuck, Q arches into him and bites his lip and thinks - _says_ \- " _Shut up_ , Bond, for the love of _God_ -" and means _Please._

Bond pushes closer. The strength of him is unbearable, unstoppable. Q marvels at how well he hides it behind expensive suits and dry wit as he is pressed flat over the mess of papers on his desk and covered with Bond. He feels like he's drowning in the other man. He doesn't want to be saved.

"They warned us," Q mutters between desperate little humps. "They told us to stay - _mmhm_ , do that, _that_ \- _yes_ \- away from you."

"Too late now," Bond says and it sounds dark, like a threat. A hand travels down Q's front, over a terribly thick sweater that is perfect for the chill of the basement but so terribly cruel in keeping Bond's touch to a ghostly sensation. Bond seems to think so, too, because he pulls at it savagely enough to thin the thread. Q makes a sound of protest that promptly melts to a moan in the heat of Bond's mouth. The sweater is pulled over his head, the button-down underneath turned into a robe. Buttons pop and clack against the floor.

"So many things," Q groans, only half in ardor. His wardrobe, like his pride and sanity, has suffered great losses since he'd taken up with Bond.

Bond hums and bites down on a tight nipple.

Q arches up from his desk and comes in his slacks.

It's a mess from there.

Sometime later, Q finds himself curled up in a rolly-chair watching Bond tidy up the office. There is a steaming mug in his hands. Q blinks down at it, takes a sip. Tea. Two sugars and a splash of milk, even. Just the way he likes it.

"Earl Gray really doesn't go well with semen," Q comments and takes another sip. Things are coming back to him. Things such as slipping down Bond's body as soon as he could feel his legs and wrapping his lips around the man's dick.

Bond chuckles. All Q can see of him is his ass as he retrieves various tidbits that had rolled off the desk during their...erm. Anyway, it's a pretty nice sight. Almost worth the bruises Q feels forming over his shoulder blades. Bendy, he's not.  "You should make a menu. For reference."

"You should stop ambushing me in the office. People are going to talk." Bond levels him a _look_ over the desk's edge. Q reconsiders. "Alright, they'll talk _more_. I don't want to be the office slut."

"You are not the office slut," Bond says, putting emphasis on _office._ Q glares at him. Bond smiles back, expression reminiscent of a particularly handsome shark. He straightens and pats Q's desk lamp. "There. All better."

The lamp's head promptly detaches. Q glares harder.

Bond shrugs. "Shoddy construction."

"I wonder how my dick hasn't fallen off yet." Q mutters and stretches his legs. "You are a walking jinx."

Bond slides a hand through the curls framing Q's face. Q yelps - in a manly fashion - and swats at the man. "What the _hell_ , Bond. Give me a heart attack after shagging me silly, why don't you."

"There was no shagging," Bond says, kind of mournfully. Q shifts in his chair and tells his dick that no, it's too early to go again, he doesn't care how sexy James Bond's pout is.

"I'm not sitting through another section meeting with your cum in my arse," Q snaps, going for prissy and ending up somewhere between vaguely affronted and horny as hell. Which is about how he feels at the moment. Bond growls and presses his face to the hollow of Q's neck and sort of breathes him in.

Q _throbs_. There had been nothing in the memo about this. He'd been sent in underprepared and Jesus Christ, Bond is licking him. Q opens his mouth to bitch and kind of melts back into the chair instead, head falling against a broad shoulder. Bond's smirk is pronounced. His hands on Q are gentle.

"It was an important mission." Bond kisses the words into Q's jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Q turns his head, blindly seeking. "You are my lucky charm."

Q bites that smug mouth. "Careful, or I'll turn into the black cat that crossed your path instead."

"Cats are crafty," Bond says, tone approving. "They've got nine lives and many tricks."

"All of which I need, now that I've taken up with you," Q grumbles. Bond laughs at him and kisses the frown lines tightening his lips away. Then he rises, takes a step back. Q lets out a whine before he catches himself. He flushes and looks away from the heat in Bond's eyes.

"Here."

A jacket falls over Q's exposed torso. Q snuggles into the warmth, just now realizing how cold he had been. The smell that clings to the fabric is even nicer. Bond's.

Q very consciously does not sniff Bond's clothing.

"Where are you going?" he asks instead.

"To debrief," Bond says offhandedly. Q gapes.

"You haven't debriefed yet?"

"I had things to do." Bond grins and rewords. "I had _you_ to do."

Q physically _needs_ something sharp to throw at the man. Sadly, he is currently too far away from his dagger collection in the secret compartment beneath the desk.

"I want flowers next time," Q blurts out instead. Bond blinks back. Q pushes on, chest tight but unable to stop. "And dinner. At a posh restaurant where the waiters sneer at customers who dare flounce in without a waistcoat on."

The arrogance that had lit up Bond's features fades into something softer. Q swallows. It takes all of his strength and balls to keep looking the man in the eyes.

"Anything you want," Bond says, serious and deep and fuck, this is bad, this is so beyond casual sex bad. Q can breathe again.

"Go," he tells the man. His vision is growing alarmingly blurry. Q wants Bond gone now. He's not ready for quite so much sharing.

Bond nods and turns away, sets for the door. The big lug can be quite understanding, when he wants to. Another thing that hadn't been in the man's dossier.

"I still need that gun," Bond calls over his shoulder.

Q, who had managed to waddle his way to his desk, grabs the lamp's decapitated head and flings it in direction of the voice. The resulting crash is most satisfying. Bond's laughter, less so.

Q's harried assistant does not brave the office until good fifteen minutes later. By that time, Q is absorbed in a program he's been building from the ground up for the past week and feeling quite mellow. A great shift from the headache and nausea with which he had greeted the day.

"Are you alright, sir?" Molly asks in between clacks of her own keyboard.

Q does not bother to look up from his screen, just mumbles a distracted, "Swell. Why?"

"You just seem..." The woman trails off, quite out of character. She is usually more the bleed-them-dry kind of conversationalist. Q cocks an eyebrow in her direction, then clicks the computer's camera on.

His own face blinks back, spacey and flushed and looking generally buggered out.

"Oh." Q says.

"It's a good look on you," Molly offers. "Also, I found a button on the floor. Probably yours. You know, from your ripped bodice."

Q sighs, low and deep.

Office slut it is.


End file.
